


"Salvation in a Cell"

by Coralrose10



Category: Luther (2003)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Inspired by a Movie, Internal Conflict
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-07
Updated: 2017-06-07
Packaged: 2018-11-10 01:29:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11117040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Coralrose10/pseuds/Coralrose10
Summary: Having humiliated himself during his first Mass as celebrant, Martin Luther (Joseph Fiennes) experiences a dark night of the soul.  He is comforted and "saved" by his fatherly confessor, Johann von Staupitz (Bruno Ganz)





	"Salvation in a Cell"

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the "monk's cloister scene" in the movie LUTHER. While reading, imagine Joseph Fiennes in the Martin Luther role, Bruno Ganz in the role of Staupitz. The dialogue consists of (more or less) direct quotes from the movie.

**“Salvation in a Cell”**

 

_"Shut up Shut up Leave me alone Satan, stifle your lying tongue...”_

  Huddled in a far corner of a sparse, cold, contemplation cell in an Erfurt monastery, Martin found himself in the throes of spiritual despair. What should have been a proud and glorious day had proved humiliating, disheartening-so much so much so that Martin Luther, young brother and priest in the Church of Rome, was at present reduced to pleading with the Devil!

Against his earthly father’s wishes, Martin had taken the monk’s cowl. The ambitious if plebeian Hans Luther had labored in the mines for years to raise his son to “a noble profession,” that of lawyer. Thus Martin, having come of age, commenced to study law at Erfurt’s university. Whilst returning home for a holiday respite, Martin found himself suddenly trapped in a brewing thunderstorm; a bolt of lightning knocked him from his horse. Thunderstorms–the dread of young and old, poor and rich, lay Catholics and clergy alike! Being caught out in one could spoil even the best-laid plans for the salvation of one’s own soul; a flash of lightning, and any mortal sins still on that soul would be imputed; the soul would go to Hell. Even _venial_ sins un-absolved would land the soul in Purgatory–and the problem with the tortuous, Purgative State was this: one could not know, in advance, just how long it would last...

In his terror, in his desperation, Martin had knelt where he lay and made a bargain with a saint. “Saint Anne, spare me I’ll become a monk! Not a lawyer, a monk! Just spare me!” had been his plea.

To his immense relief, the bargain worked; Martin survived the storm. He went not to Hell or to Purgatory but to his home–where Hans Luther soon learned of his son's change of plans. Herr Luther was furious, but there was nothing he could do. Heavenly obligations overruled earthly ones; he knew this quite well.

Yet he still insisted that the earthly promise be honored! How strange Martin found this! Only that morning, as he left his son’s initial Mass as celebrant, Herr Luther had used the broken promise as a weapon. "Is that how you interpret the commandment to honor your father and mother?" he had asked rhetorically. " _God_ brought you here? The Devil, more like!” Yes, Hans Luther was good at instilling guilt.

And so to Martin’s present quandary. By becoming a monk he had thought to lose his own self-will--to give up worldly ambition, that root of all damning evils. And yet, for this young monk, the very project of giving up self-will was _willful_! It defied the Sixth Commandment of God! To this, then, had Martin come: an isolated cell-a moral quandary grimly ironic in nature, that appeared to him like a dark and endless tunnel...

Hans Luther’s anger that day, as Martin knew too well, was due in part to the mess his son had made of the morning's Eucharist. Jealous peers had over-filled the Communion cup: Martin realized this the moment he lifted it. The chalice’s sheer heaviness proceeded to merge with Martin's anxious state–his nervousness, his guilt–to produce an unprecedented _spill_. In horror he watched as the blood-red wine soaked the lily-white altar cloth. The congregation reacted with murmurs and gasps; Hans Luther’s embarrassment did not stop him whipping his head around in righteous indignation. For he was proud, and even now regarded Martin as an extension of himself.

Alas, it was all too hard, Martin thought now as he sat upon the unforgiving stone floor. His father, his enemies, the Commandment, God, the Devil–and his own, shameful cowardice. Likely this, too, was a sign of his eminent unfitness for Heaven...

_“I never claimed to be good! Never! They know my faults here–my pride, my cursed lust. I confess them all!”_

He had indeed! Daily–no, hourly–visits to the confessional he had made, in an attempt to scrub clean his soul. Even Martin's confessor, a kindly man named Staupitz, was growing sick of him! There he sat, then: young Martin Luther, unloved by all, scorned by all, _and rejected by the One who made him..._

Utterly devoid of hope, Martin broke down and wept. Before his fellow monks, his father, and his congregation, he had dared not shed a tear. Now that he was by himself, however, he cried as if he were a child. Sobs wracked his body, which was gaunt and weak from months of penitential fasting.

Yet God loomed over him still–an unrelenting Judge! Martin’s weeping presently gave way to a fit of trembling. Outside his cell, his fellow Brothers tossed uneasily in their humble beds. In truth, Martin knew not whom to fear more: God–or Satan...

_“Just leave me! Leave me!”_

Suddenly, there came a still, small voice from the other side of the cloister door:

_“You’re too hard on yourself, Brother Martin. Arguing with the Devil never does any of us any good. He has had 5,000 years of practice. He knows all the weak spots.”_

Yes, it was the voice of Martin’s confessor, Johann von Staupitz. The older monk's tone was gentle, his face creased with paternal concern. Here, at last, was a sympathetic presence; Martin took to it like a weary man to a soft bed. His pale face soaked with tears and sweat, Martin began to unburden himself: “I’m sorry about today.”  
“I’m not here to scold you, Martin.”  
To Martin, this sympathy was a blessed, if temporary, relief. He unburdened himself more.  
“I’m too full of sin to be a priest...I live in terror of judgment..."

Having entered the cell to be close to Martin, Staupitz replied, “And you think self-hatred will save you?”  
Was there an _alternative_ to self-hatred, then? Martin had not been aware of one; he doubted he could believe in one. His mind continued along a familiar track:  
“Have you ever dared to think that God is not just? He has us born tainted by sin; then he’s angry with us all our lives for our faults–this righteous Judge, who damns us–-“here Martin laughed bitterly–-“threatening us with the fires of Hell!”  
There, he’d just blasphemed! Another sin to be confessed!  
“I know–I’m evil to think it.”

_“Agree with thine enemy quickly...”_

Staupitz softened. “You’re not evil! You’re just not honest! God isn’t angry with you. You are angry with God!"  
Even here, an accusation!  
“I wish there were no God.”  
He had muttered this one. Perhaps God had not heard it.  
“Martin, what is it you seek?”  
The answer to this question came out like a cry from the soul...  
“A merciful God! A God whom I can love! A God who loves me...”  
As if to comfort him, Staupitz removed the wooden cross that hung about his neck and offered it to his spiritual son.  
“Then look to Christ,” he urged. “Bind yourself to Christ–and you will know God’s love. Say to him, ‘I am yours. Save me.’”  
It was advice such as any sensible Churchman would give to any dying Christian in despair over the fate of his soul. Put aside the Hail Marys, the spiritual disciplines, the best-laid plans of men for salvation. In the end, as the wise Staupitz well knew, it was grace alone that saved. In a more deliberate tone he repeated the prayer:

“ _I am yours. Save me.”_

Gazing on the humble cross as if it were a raft in perilous river, a trembling Martin Luther grasped his “father’s” hand and heard himself say,

_“I am yours. Save me. I am yours. Save me.”_

At the time Martin felt that these words gave him peace. Years later he knew that they were, in fact, the key to his salvation and to that of thousands like him.


End file.
